


Chrysalis

by kaesaria



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Slow Build, ToT: Chocolate Box, Wakanda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-24 09:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8366818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaesaria/pseuds/kaesaria
Summary: They give him food and clothes. They give him a place to lay his head. They don’t ask for anything in return._____Written in response to a trickortreatex prompt: "Post-CW fic when Bucky is awakened from cryo."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [csichick_2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/csichick_2/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I know basically nothing about T'Challa and Wakanda beyond what was shown in CA:CW and the Black Panther [teaser trailer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQnlr1N4LGU), so I made a bunch of stuff up. I'm sure I got a lot of details wrong, but I hope this is enjoyable anyway!
> 
> A huge thank you to [Tipsy_Kitty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tipsy_Kitty) and [Deerna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/deerna) for reading this over for me.

The first color Bucky sees when he comes out of the ice is green, which is different.

He’s used to harsher colors, or drabber ones. The cold blue of still-frosted glass, his tiny window into the world outside the cryo chamber. The cement walls of another underground bunker, grey and bleak. The grim uniforms of soldiers in black TAC gear.

This time, all he sees is _green_ : a vibrant, living green; a lush jungle that spreads into the distance. It’s jarring, and Bucky blinks, confused.

“Welcome back, Mr. Barnes,” says a voice, which is different. Handlers never bothered to welcome him before. He turns his head to the source. “You gave us a bit of a scare,” the man says, and Bucky reads relief in his eyes. His voice is deep, and warm.

Bucky looks at him and waits for orders. There’s an itch at his left shoulder. He reaches up to scratch it before he remembers the restraints that strap him immobile in the chamber. Then he realizes there are no restraints.

Then he remembers the rest.

“I’m sorry we had to wake you ahead of schedule,” T’Challa says. “I hope you had restful dreams.”

“I don’t dream, your majesty,” Bucky tells him. Then, “Believe me, that’s a good thing.”

~

Wakanda is a study in contrasts. The view from his room is breathtaking: the jungle sprawls, dense and verdant, until it hits the crisp waterline of the great lake that separates the country from her southern neighbors. The green is punctuated here and there by fantastic buildings, shining white citadels of stone and steel and glass. On the other side, the palace overlooks the city and the sand-colored brush that stretches far beyond it.

He spends most of his time, the first few days, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows that seem to be a standard feature of every room. No one stops him. No one tells him what to do, or where to go.

They give him food and clothes. They give him a place to lay his head. They give him a tablet with an internet connection, a portal into the rest of the world. They don’t ask for anything in return.

Steve has been informed, they tell him. He’ll get here as soon as he can, but it might be a while. The Avengers have officially split, and there’s still a lot of chaos to be sorted out.

Bucky looks out the window and nods. The view is beautiful; he’d fallen in love with it from the moment he opened his eyes.

Steve is still on the run, they tell him. _Your fault_ , they don’t say.

~

Sometimes, T’Challa comes to stand with him. He doesn’t talk much. After a while, Bucky realizes the silence isn’t for his benefit. It’s just something the king likes doing: standing in quiet thoughtfulness, looking out over his lands.

He does it like it’s something he’s always done, and he doesn’t mind sharing the view.

It’s nice. Bucky likes the quiet.

~

His skin itches, where the arm used to be. The stump is sealed now, it doesn’t hurt to touch—it just feels wrong. An empty space where a piece of him had been broken off. The metal is gone, along with the dull aches across his shoulder and back; the constant strain of muscles holding up the weight of it. He’d never noticed the pain until it’s not there anymore.

“We can design a replacement,” T’Challa says, one day. He’s looking out the window. Beside him, Bucky had been rubbing the stump again. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it.

“You’re not going to put me back under.” It comes out a question.

T’Challa turns to him. “We can,” he says. Then, “I would say that’s up to you.”

There’s a fog coming from the lake, it’s just starting to envelop the edges of the jungle. A cocoon of warmth, and protection. Bucky watches it roll across the landscape.

“A new arm would be nice,” he admits, after a while.

~

Bucky never dreams, but when he closes his eyes at night, before he falls asleep, he sees colors. Blue, and black, and gunmetal gray. Sometimes he sees red; a thick, viscous color that leaves an acrid tang at the back of his throat.

On those nights, he opens the blinds and sits on the floor in front of the windows. He watches the sky and counts the stars until the horizon turns pink, then yellow, then a vibrant orange, and he can breathe again.

~

There’s a polished courtyard that surrounds the palace, and just beyond the walls, there’s a wide public square. The rainbow of awnings that cover the market stalls draws Bucky’s eyes, as do the children who run and play between the vendors’ wares and their mothers’ skirts. Small bare feet on warm summer sand. Strong, gangly limbs that kick and throw balls to each other. Flashes of white teeth, and bright eyes, and mouths wide with laughter.

In his mind’s eye, Bucky sees different streets: cracking sidewalks and alleyways between tall buildings. Layering lines of laundry flapping above, and the tolerantly annoyed voice of a mother calling her children in for supper. The feel of the pavement under his newspaper-patched soles as he runs after another boy. A mop of sun-bright hair on a head too big for his scrawny body. A flash of white teeth, and a mouth wide with laughter.

“It’s easy to forget that we, too, were young once,” T’Challa says, and it brings Bucky back to himself. When he looks up, he sees his own reflection in the glass in front of him. He’s smiling a little. It’s a strange sight.

“I was thinking of—.” _Home_ , he was going to say, but that’s not right. Home is where you belong, and Bucky belongs nowhere. “Of the past,” he finishes, instead.

Outside, a tiny boy with an impish face kicks his ball under the skirts of a woman in a majestic headdress. It causes a billowing commotion of fabric, and she turns to scold him, exasperated, indulgent.

They watch the tableau unfold together. “Would you like to see the city?” T’Challa asks, after a while. Bucky blinks. It hadn’t occurred to him that he was allowed.

“Come,” the king says, and he’s smiling, too. Bucky follows.

~

The city streets are a dizzying tangle of bright colors and busy sounds. The cajoling calls of vendors hawking their wares, an unending bustle of shoppers and pedestrians. Bright-eyed children chasing city dogs, tongues and tails wagging.

The market stalls are awash with the smells and textures of a thousand exotic spices, bright bolts of cloth, carved toys and knick-knacks. Behind them, and further back in the street, are the glass fronts and plush window displays of larger stores: Nike, and Guess and Tommy Hilfiger.

Bucky brushes his fingers over the cloth for sale at the stall in front of him. The fabric is soft, and brilliantly colored—like nothing that’s ever touched his skin.

The merchant grins at him; calls him _brother_. Tells him the blue will complement the color of his eyes. Bucky pulls back his hand, half pleased and half alarmed. “We’ll bring cash next time,” T’Challa says, laughing, “and have a proper suit made up for you.”

The people smile at him, nod hello. No one looks at him askance. It’s a beautiful thing, heady and exhilarating—to be noticed, but not hated, not feared. Bucky had almost forgotten what that felt like. But the friendly glances are nothing compared to the open adoration the people lavish on the man beside him.

Women stop to chat, and flirt, and touch T’Challa’s arm. Fathers point him out to their children, who come running up for a royal hello and a pat on a shoulder, or a cheek. Wrinkled old faces unfold in pleasure at the sight of their king.

T’Challa basks in it. He belongs to these people, and they belong to him.

They spend the day wandering the streets, watching the everyday spectacle of a city going about its business. T’Challa stops often to speak to the people that come up to him to say hello, or to discuss a bit of news. He stops to point things out to Bucky: an old mine, a museum, a historic building. His favorite restaurants and the places he used to play as a boy.

Bucky looks, and nods, and marvels. He basks, too.

When it gets too hot, they dip into a store. It sells electronics. T’Challa eyes the iPhones and StarkPhones on display, and his lips quirk. There’s a glint in his eyes. “Inferior American products,” he says, “but the kids like the brand names. What can you do?”

Bucky picks up a StarkPhone, hums appreciatively. Just to be an ass.

T’Challa shoves at him, grinning. “Come on,” he says, “There’s something else I want you to see.”

They make their way up a rolling hill that starts near the western end of the palace grounds until they reach a crest that looks over the city and the lands beyond. There’s another ruin here: an ancient edifice made of the same sand-colored stone as the rest of the older parts of the city. It was a sanctuary once, T’Challa tells him. A place of worship, and of reflection.

They pick their way through the rubble, and Bucky runs his fingers over the cracking masonry. He thinks about the generations of men of women who had come here to seek amnesty, or absolution.

On the far side, there’s a wide arch that once must have been the main entryway into the grand temple. Now nothing remains except a curve of aged stones that make up the gateway. It’s still majestic.

T’Challa sits on the steps in front of the archway, and after a moment Bucky settles down next to him. The scene laid out before them—a sweeping view of the city and lands that the temple presides over—is breathtaking. For a long moment, it takes all of their attention.

“So what do you think of it,” T’Challa asks, finally, “my Wakanda?”

“You’re a lucky man,” Bucky tells him. “Your home is beautiful.”

“When my father was a boy, the animals would roam just beyond the city walls.” T’Challa’s voice is slow and far away, speaking into the past. “He used to sit on these steps with his brothers and watch parades of elephants lumber past.”

He says, “Now, the capital has sprawled, and the animals don’t like the noise. They have left, and we travel long distances into the brush to catch glimpses of them.” He shifts his gaze, considers his city, thoughtful. “But the streets are wider now, and the market is larger. We have more schools, more businesses, more jobs. There are more children to play in the square. These are all good things.” His voice turns wistful. “But it must have been a special thing, to watch the herds roam past the city. Some of the elders say they still do, sometimes, but I have never seen them.”

Bucky looks into the horizon, tries to imagine a migration of animals in the wide expanse of the brush. T’Challa’s right: a special place, this land must have been. It still is.

The silence stretches between them, warm and comfortable.

“There’s an old Egyptian proverb,” T’Challa says, after a while, “‘A beautiful thing is never perfect. _’_ It was one of my father’s favorite sayings, and he had a lot of them.” He smiles, tasting a memory. “Though he never said that particular one around my mother. A wise man, my father was.”

“A wise man,” Bucky agrees.

“We must take the good with the bad, is what he meant. And we are richer for it.”

Bucky nods slowly. “There’s a lot of bad in me,” he says, without really meaning to. “In my past.”

T’Challa is silent for another long beat. Then, “All of our riches are skewed, one way or another. When evil is foisted on you, it’s not of your doing.” He looks at Bucky, then away again. “For a long time—far too long—all you were shown was the bad in this world. And yet, you look at this land, and you see all the beauty in it. That’s a special thing.”

There’s a quiet certainty in T’Challa’s tone. He has a way of speaking that imbues authority into whatever he’s saying, no matter how impossible the words. Maybe it comes with being king.

Bucky doesn’t understand it—but it soothes him, anyway. _A special thing_ , he thinks. From the corner of his eye, he can see T’Challa’s slow smile.

“One day, I will take you on safari,” the king continues, his voice light again. “I’ll show you the elephants, the giraffes, the zebras.” He throws another sidelong glance at Bucky. “And the panthers.”

“I know how you like cats,” Bucky says, and he’s smiling, too.

~

When Bucky closes his eyes that night, he sees green and gold. He sees bright blues and yellows of cloth, and the rich purple of a woman’s headdress. He sees deep brown eyes that look at him with kindness, and with affection.

No need to wait for the sun to rise tonight; Bucky can see all the colors of it in his mind’s eye. He falls asleep between one breath and the next.

~

The king is a busy man; he has a whole country to run, and a thousand obligations. But he finds time to spend with Bucky. They share dinner almost every night. They share jokes, and stories, and memories—the good, and the bad.

T’Challa shares his father’s wisdom: _Show me your friend and I will show you your character._

And, _however long the night, the dawn will break._

And, _one thread for the needle, one love for the heart._

They share the view.

~

Steve calls when he can, texts when he can’t. _The arm looks great_ , he says, and, _I’ll come as soon as I can_ , and, _Not much longer now._ On the screen, his distracted face smooths with fondness whenever he sees Bucky. He talks about the work he’s doing, the new alliances he’s made, all the goals and challenges he faces in pursuit of his mission: the good fight, and a better world.

Bucky nods, and agrees, and tries to push back the tension building at the base of his spine.

The new arm is lighter, and the mechanics of it are smoother. It’s designed to look natural, the surface matches the exact shade and texture of his flesh hand. Bucky blends into the crowd now. There’s no one here to look at him askance.

But the arm just as strong, just as deadly as it ever was. And Bucky is just as unstable, just as dangerous as he ever was. Never more than a few trigger words away from reverting to the weapon he was built to be.

When he goes outside the palace walls, Bucky keeps his left hand in his pocket. Out of habit.

~

Bucky learns the names of the people in the palace and of the children who play stickball in the streets. Sometimes, he plays with them. The men and women in the market call him _brother_ ; they give him fond smiles as they wave him over to buy his coffee and plums from their stalls.

The days stretch into weeks, and every day Bucky finds new wonders. He spends his days in the city and his evenings in the palace. He tries to memorize the sights and sounds, to pack them away in a place inside himself he can carry forever. He paints new images in his mind over the scarred canvases of his old life. He tries to find words for the colors he sees every day.

Steve will be here soon. He’ll buy Steve a fresh set of pencils, he decides, one to capture every hue. A palette of new memories that he can use to redraw Bucky’s life. But there’s something prickly in that thought, a sharp thing that Bucky’s mind shies away from, skittish.

More and more, it focuses on a different person—the new friend that stands beside him, instead of the one that’s been at the center of Bucky’s life for as far back as he can remember. It twists, like a betrayal—but Bucky can’t stop the draw.

Sometimes, he doesn’t want to.

~

“I have a new one for you,” the king tells him. They’re standing at their usual place, watching the city together. “‘He who has no house of his own is everywhere at home’.”

Bucky turns the words over in his head. “This is your home,” he says, finally.

“Yes,” T’Challa says. “But not mine alone.” Outside, the people of the city mill the streets. They’re all busy with the details of their lives, individual yet interwoven. They belong to this land, and T’Challa belongs to them.

“Steve will be here soon,” Bucky says. Then, “He wants me to go with him.”

T’Challa doesn’t reply right away, but there’s a question in his eyes, and something else. Something more complex. Bucky has to look away. Outside, the rising sun casts purple shadows under the bellies of fat pink clouds.

“You can’t want me to stay.” It comes out a whisper.

T’Challa is quiet for a long while. Then, “‘He who has no house of his own is everywhere at home’ _,_ ” he repeats. His tone is contemplative.

Bucky lifts his new hand, puts it flat on the glass of the window. Beside him, T’Challa is still looking into the distance. But Bucky knows him now; he can feel the trajectory of the king’s attention. It’s not focused on the city.

“Many of the old sayings are full of wisdom,” T’Challa says, finally. “But not all of them.”

The king lifts his own hand, slow. “A beautiful thing is never perfect, that’s true,” he says. When puts his hand over Bucky’s, his palm feels familiar over the new skin. “But every man needs a home.” T’Challa’s voice is deep, and there’s kindness in his tone.

And something else.

The sun is rising higher outside, casting highlights of crimson and gold and orange over the city. The light washes over Bucky’s skin, brilliant and heady. In distance, far into the brush, he can see small, lumbering shapes parading across the horizon. As he watches, the herd stops, waits for a few stragglers to catch up. Then they continue their journey, a family together.

Bucky turns his wrist, closes his fingers around the T’Challa’s palm. He pulls their joined hands toward himself. Under his lips, the skin is soft, and warm.

“A new home would be nice,” he admits, finally.

When he looks up, he sees his own reflection in the glass. He’s smiling, a little.

And so is T’Challa, beside him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The African proverbs are from [this site](http://afritorial.com/the-best-72-african-wise-proverbs/).
> 
> I’m using this to fill the _Rites of Passage / Coming of Age_ box on my Trope bingo card.
> 
>  **All comments and kudos are cherished!** You can also discuss this story (or anything else) with me on [Imzy](https://www.imzy.com/kaesaria) or [Tumblr](http://kaesaria.tumblr.com/).


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